


In Consideration of Courtesies Exchanged

by Cashmerin



Series: In Consideration of Courtesies Exchanged [3]
Category: Fate/Zero, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms
Genre: Dysfunctional Family, Engagement, F/M, Family Issues, Mage politics, Multi, Other, Political Marriage, interpersonal character arcs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-28
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-03 18:07:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5301497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cashmerin/pseuds/Cashmerin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Political arrangements have a funny way of working both for, and against, one's best interests. And sometimes, forging allegiances between old and powerful families means involving those who would rather not involve themselves at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Run-ins and Brunches

It was by chance that he bumped into her a week after the contract was signed and delivered. Bump, in this case, being literal, as he hurried down the corridor to the library following a particularly inspiring thought during lecture. One of his brighter students had made an offhand comment about the nature of overlap between basic foundational magics and the miracles cited in the Church’s Holy Scripture that he was eager to extrapolate upon in his own researches, if possible. He hadn’t even noticed as the slender figure approached a little too closely to his right side. The collision was minor, thankfully. He made his apologies quickly and was about to continue on his way when the blonde ringlets registered in his brain. 

“Oh… I, eh.” He shifted uncomfortably as his feet froze him in place. His eyes darted to the woman’s left hand where the excessively large ring winked in the afternoon sunlight. 

Her eyebrows raised expectantly. 

“You returned the paperwork quickly,” he managed miserably. 

A peal of grating laughter erupted from her, her delicate hand reaching to cover her mouth. 

“Oh, my dear Lord El-Melloi,” she cooed. (“The Second,” he grumbled correctively.) “Should I have taken longer? Perhaps thought it over for a few days?” She smiled patronizingly. “But it takes no time to contemplate a foregone conclusion.”

“Did you... eh, did you look over the rest of it?” He’d spent rather a lot of time on ‘the rest of it’. It would be a shame if she hadn’t even read through. 

She tilted her head to the side and flicked her right hand dismissively at him. “I glanced over your silly little terms, yes.” 

Waver frowned. She found them silly? He thought he’d been impressively thorough. Of all the demographics that would appreciate a fully formulated marriage contract, he’d been sure that these old families would want to go through the hard copy with a fine-toothed comb. Just to be sure, of course. 

Apparently she noticed the tension in his brow, because she folded her hands on her hips. “Oh, you can’t be serious, Master Velvet,” she scowled. “You really wanted me to read through all that nonsense?” 

“It wasn’t nonsense,” he objected, stuffing his hand in his pocket, searching for the comforting grip of a cigar. 

“It _was_ and it _is_ ,” she insisted, face twisting in mild annoyance. “The terms had already been decided. It makes no _difference_ if you write them down or trust that everyone will keep their word. Anyway, I signed it, so it doesn’t matter now.” 

Waver directed his eyes toward the floor to avoid her confrontational gaze. A bit of movement caught his attention; her thumb had stretched across her palm and was rubbing the bottom-inside edge of the engagement ring. _A common sign of discomfort,_ he thought. But discomfort with what? He couldn’t tell if it was simply the feel of a new piece of jewelry that was bothering her—perhaps one that did not fit quite right— or if it was some kind of habitual stress response. Truth be told, though he’d known her several years, he’d never paid that much attention to any of his students’ quirks. It was only their particular odd situation now that prompted him to observe more closely. 

Faintly, he could feel his stomach begin to pain him. 

“Alright,” he began, feigning nonchalance as best he could while pulling the cigar from his pocket. He cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should, er. Do Lunch. Sometime.” 

Personally, he doubted that “doing lunch” would do them any good. They would probably be lucky to live amiably under the same roof for any length of time once the legalities were taken care of. He would try his best, but frankly, excepting time spent during lectures and other educational pursuits, the woman before him terrified him. She reminded him a bit of Reines, with the shrewd eyes and the blonde hair. Not really the sort of thing that ignites a man’s passions. Then again, he wasn’t sure there was much that ignited ‘his passions’ at all. 

“I don’t recall seeing lunch dates in the terms you sent,” she taunted, flipping a large ringlet curl over her shoulder. 

“Perhaps that’s because you only glanced at them,” he retorted, surprising himself. 

She raised an eyebrow, evidently also surprised at his uncharacteristic boldness. His stomach knotted further, anticipating some kind of threat, but instead he watched as her face twitched a bit and took on a dumbfounded expression. 

“That’s not really in there, is it?” 

“It might be,” he replied, brow furrowing. In fact, he couldn’t remember. A bit belatedly, he _did_ remember the cigar in his hand and hastily stuffed it between his teeth. 

“Hm,” she mused, absently splaying her left hand a little in front of her and looking down at the ring encircling her finger. Her lips pursed as she used her pinky and middle fingers to wiggle the jeweled item this way and that for maximum sparkle. 

“Very well, then. We’ll do lunch.”

* * * * * *

“Would you put that away,” Luvia snapped, eyeing the apparently ubiquitous cigar with disgust. Then, remembering she was in public and had a reputation to maintain, her voice sweetened and she smiled. “ _Please._ ” 

It wasn’t that she necessarily disliked cigars on principle. Her own father enjoyed one from time to time, and many of her cousins indulged as well. There were various health considerations and warnings, of course, but mostly she just objected to any kind of tobacco products at a meal. It seemed unclean. Besides, the last thing she wanted was the taste of smoke with her wine. 

The man seated across from her obediently snuffed out the cigar and slid the crystal ashtray to the side for collection by a waiter. He folded his arms and crossed a leg over the opposite knee, watching her as if to say, _‘And what now?’_ , though she noticed that despite his dour expression, he would not make direct eye contact. It was like a child sulking when told they could not have their favorite toy at the supper table. 

They were seated on the outside patio of a lovely little upscale café that Luvia frequented. In the off chance lunch dates were included in that infernal terms packet (for which she now regretted not having a copy transcribed for reference), they had agreed to dine together at least once prior to their union in a little over two weeks. It was at Luvia’s suggestion they come to this particular spot; the food was excellent, but more than that, the service staff knew her as a regular and took particular care to make her experience a pleasant one. She was relieved that the professor had agreed without resistance. 

The meeting was going… not well. Though he’d been the one to prompt it, it appeared he had very little to say. It was strange, she thought. Back when she was his student, she remembered his lengthy and eloquent lectures that sometimes ran over the allotted time as he crammed in as much information as he thought his students needed. There were generally no objections to this. The young men found the instruction to be a ticket to the top of the socio-political tower, and a good percentage of the young ladies were too busy watching him move. 

Now, however, the smooth assuredness with which he spoke was replaced by halting sentences and pouted lips. She vaguely remembered this demeanor from many years ago, when she first met him as a teenager, but it had been a long time. She’d assumed a man in his mid-thirties would have abandoned that sort of behavior. 

_Velvet-isms_ , she decided to dub them. Not the most elegant phrase, but it wasn’t applied to the most elegant person, either. 

They sat in heavy silence as their food was served and they began to eat. Luvia delicately tore a croissant in half, nibbling at one end and setting the other back on the small china plate placed carefully alongside the larger dish presenting her eggs benedict. It was more _brunch_ than _lunch_ , of course, but the semantics didn’t matter as long as the end purpose was fulfilled. 

Across from her, the professor prodded his food restlessly around the plate in between bites. 

“Reines informs me I’ll be moving in with you,” he finally offered. The pout returned, though he quickly covered it by forcing in another forkful of potato hash. When she didn’t immediately reply, he hastened his chewing and swallowed. “After the, uh, well. You know.” 

“Indeed,” Luvia replied, taking a slow sip of tea. She didn’t exactly object to this arrangement. She had never seen where he lived, but she knew it wasn’t at the El-Melloi mansion and she had no interest in downgrading her own living circumstances. She hadn’t decided yet which room to give him, but she was sure this wouldn’t be a problem. Her home had many unused bedrooms and she assumed there would be at least one that would suit his fancy. 

His cheek twitched a bit and his eyebrows tugged closer. _One day those grooves are going to be permanently etched there_ , she thought. More than they already were. It was hard to tell if this was prompted by displeasure with his upcoming change in circumstances, or just more of his usual surliness.

“Why did you agree to this?” She asked impulsively, surprising herself. She hadn’t meant to let that little bit of curiosity slip out. When this whole affair began, she’d rather thought she’d be married to one of the Archisorte cousins, or perhaps one of the various Archibald remnants. They’d been quietly shocked when Reines had offered up her adopted “brother”, but the proximity in connection to the family head and his reputation as a talent producer quashed their more minor, if obvious, qualms. 

Fresh mage blood, they reasoned, may even help delay the eventual deterioration process of centuries-old magic circuits— if only a little. Given as well the strength of her own magic breeding, it should at the _very least_ not act as a detriment to the next generation’s magical potential. All-in-all, they counted it as an unexpected net positive. 

Even more unexpectedly, he gave a straightforward response to her somewhat rude inquiry. 

“I have a debt,” he told her plainly. 

Luvia set down the floral-patterned china tea cup and held the back of her hand to her mouth as she laughed. _A debt?_ How trite. It was like a line from a bad dime store novel, or one of the cheap soaps on television. 

“You’re not serious, my Lord? You’re mistaken if you believe _I_ am to pay your debts for you.” 

His brows knit tighter as he looked away. “It’s not that kind of debt,” he replied gruffly, setting down his fork and folding his arms again defensively. 

Then he seemed to reconsider. “Well,” he said slowly, loosening the cross of his arms ever-so-slightly, “It _is_ that kind of debt. But it also… isn’t. It’s… complicated.” 

His speech retained that halting cadence, but this time it felt more like careful consideration of the information he was willing to disclose than any sort of nervous hesitance. There were many rumours about how Waver Velvet had taken on the mantle of Lord El-Melloi II. Could this be related to that? It _must_ be related to that, musn’t it? 

“A debt to Reines?” Luvia leaned forward slightly, feeling as though she was finding out a delicious secret. 

“To Reines, to the El-Melloi.” He shrugged. 

“Hmmm.” Luvia leaned back into the white wicker chair. How interesting. She knew Reines rather well, actually. They grew up in the same circles and were only a few years apart. A debt to Reines could prove a fool’s errand in trying to repay. Luvia admired that about her. “Is there any chance of clearing it?” 

Waver reached for his wine. His more dignified teaching demeanor appeared to come back to him at talk of his younger adoptive sister. “It’s been an effort in futility, really,” he admitted miserably, taking a long sip. “Up until about ten months ago.” 

Ten months ago. Luvia suddenly felt very much like a pawn in a political chess game she had thought to position herself as Queen. 

From the corner of her vision, the hefty diamond glittered in the late morning sun. 


	2. Debts and Peonies

“She’s very beautiful,” Reines commented, crossing her ankles as she positioned herself on a bench across from Waver in the greenhouse. “You should be ecstatic.”

It was true. Luviagelita Edelfelt was very beautiful. It was, however, one of the least important on a long list of adjectives that Waver could ascribe to his… his _fiancée._

“Ecstatic over what?” Waver responded, gruffly. He stood by a row of blossoming peonies, carefully examining their petals to ensure their health. He wasn't much of a botanist, but it seemed a shame if someone didn't take the time to appreciate something that persevered even in places it did not naturally belong, in less than ideal circumstances, and even when neglected or overlooked by those who planted its seed. A delicate flower, maybe, but a resilient one. And when cared for properly, they had the most beautiful blooms. He liked that about them. All it takes is a little water and a little attention.

Reines feigned shock, her blue eyes going wide and her hand flying to rest graciously over the place where her heart should theoretically be. "Why, that I'm allowing this, of course."

" _Allowing?_ " Waver's mouth twisted to the side. Reines had been pretending for a week that this wedding was his idea, for which, presumably, he had fictitiously pleaded for her approval. It was the new game that was apparently amusing for a reason known only to her. "The same way you _allow_ me to be your brother, I suppose."

She lifted her hand from her breast and flicked it dismissively at him. An oddly specific trope, it seemed: blondes sending dismissive flicks of their dainty hands in his direction. It was almost comical— just the other day he had been comparing Luvia to Reines. Now it appeared that Reines was in fact reminding him of Luvia. There it was, he thought. One of the adjectives more important than beautiful. _Haughty._

"Oh, don't be obstinate,” she chided, watching his inspection of the petals even as she made no secret of her absolute disinterest in the task. “Even if she is an Edelfelt, it really is a good deal for you. I get a nice shuffle of leverage in cross-faction affairs, and you get to call it even on the remainder of your debts. _I_ still have to play my cards right in the Association to make the most of this, but all _you_ have to do is marry her. You should be more grateful."

"Monetary debts," he corrected her. "Just the monetary ones."

"Yes, yes, obviously that,” she acknowledged, a graze of irritation flitting through her voice. “Though I'll admit I get a nice touch of schadenfreude out of this to go towards the others." There was a pause as she giggled. "You do know what schadenfreude is, don't you, brother?"

“You didn’t even come up with this idea,” he reminded her, stepping away from the flowers and pacing aimlessly around the greenhouse. It had been awhile since he was last in here. He generally avoided the mid-afternoon in the spring and summer, which would typically be his only available time bracket for this sort of activity. He couldn’t decide if he liked all this sun or not. It was almost refreshing, after all the time he spent inside with nothing but the artificial light and the glow of his television screen as he played his games. But by that same token, it felt like he was slowly dying of exposure. He might get melanoma. Or at least a sunburn. Same thing, really.

“That makes it even better,” she replied, running a freshly manicured hand through her hair. “They don’t even realize the advantages they’ve given me. Think of all the influence I can creep into their little clique of talent-philanthropists.”

Reines' particular stance on this subject was ironic, Waver thought, given that his position in mage society was granted to him from a faction that staunchly believed in bloodline over all else. Handing him off to the Edelfelts was in itself a gleeful way of telling them they reap what they sow when they open their arms to less blooded, less _deserving_ mages on the basis of aptitude alone. For his part though, Waver didn't quite think the Edelfelts saw it that way.

“It’s truly impressive how you never get bored of being evil,” he quipped. Reines wasn’t the literal designated heir of the Judeo-Christian Satan, he knew. Just, sometimes, he strongly wondered if she wasn’t intentionally vying for the position.

“That’s assuming she doesn’t kill you in your sleep and steal your research, naturally,” she continued, ignoring him. “That’s been known to happen.”

“And blame it on Guilder, I assume,” he answered wryly. She was right; the notion of offing your spouse to steal their personal researches wasn’t entirely unheard of in mage society, but it was generally frowned upon and the idea of it retained an air of almost satirical levels of treachery.

“What?” Reines asked, her voice sharp. A quizzical look spread across her face.

“Nothing,” he responded quickly. Even if he explained, which he didn’t feel like doing anyway, he knew she wouldn’t appreciate the joke. Her eyes narrowed at him as he casually cut the tip of a cigar.

"Tell me, dear brother—"

"Mm?" he replied, finishing the task and striking a match. This was his last one. He'd have to get more. He'd had to get more for a month now. He was counting them as they disappeared. Yet somehow, he still hadn't made it to the corner shop.

"— what _precisely_ made you agree to this?"

Waver shook the flame off the slim matchstick, took a long drag, then let out a puff of smoke. "Please, Reines," he complained, "You were just talking about my debts to you. I assumed clearing them is a good enough reason."

Reines' eyes narrowed further. "It's a good reason,” she ceded. “I just don't think it's _your_ reason."

Waver sighed. The way she was glaring at him prompted a squeamish feeling in his gut. He wanted to go home and open the box that had been delivered right before he'd had to leave for lectures. It was a pre-order that he was actually quite excited about. He had told himself that he would get started on it before the day was out, but he hadn’t anticipated that this day was going to turn out to be so long.

"I don't know," he answered sincerely.

"You don't know." She echoed, voice iced with disbelief.

He knew it was an answer she wouldn’t be satisfied with. It was an answer he himself wasn’t satisfied with. The only redeeming thing that he could say off the top of his head about Luviagelita Edelfelt that piqued his interest was her intelligence-- that, and she'd been a very good student. It was true that she’d spent many hours belittling his rather meager abilities, but she was a fast learner and seemed to respect that he knew what he was talking about when it came to her own magic circuits. She had readily accepted instruction once she had ascertained for herself that his methods held water. Beneath her often cloying facade, he’d seen many flashes of an exceptionally bright young mage with an even brighter future.

Every other emotion she elicited from him fell somewhere on a scale of indifference to fear. He held up his hands submissively, cigar tucked between his left index and middle finger.

"I don't know," he repeated.

Her eyes flicked to the embers at the tip of the rolled brown stick. "You've been smoking an awful lot lately, brother."

"I do that," he answered sardonically.

"More than usual." She propped her elbow on the arm of the bench, resting a daintily extended forefinger against her cheek as her middle finger lightly brushed her lips. Her gaze held steady.

Waver's chest was constricting. His stomach, too, was learning sailor's knots. He badly wanted to bring the cigar back between his teeth, but he knew that would only serve to underscore her suspicions– whatever they may be.

"I don't know, Reines." His reinforcement of this deflection sounded pathetic even to his own ears. He was a grown man. He should be more assertive. He should take more control over his life. He should… eh, what did he care. He knew more about magecraft and magic history and theorems than nearly anyone else at Clock Tower. He’d earned the right to be whatever sort of man-child he wanted to be.

Right now, he wanted to be the sort that was sitting on his shitty little bed wearing boxers and beginning his new game, as he _would_ have been if Reines hadn’t decided she was bored and “wanted company” to “enjoy the flowers”.

Her face softened a bit. It was almost as if she’d begun to believe him.

“I almost feel bad for you, you know,” she said, tone switching to something more conversational and less like he was being interrogated by the parts of government that _officially_ don’t exist. “You’re going to be stuck with her for a very long, long time. Are you sure it’s worth it? I’m sure I could find other ways for you to chip away at your debts if you’d prefer.”

He took one last drag of his cigar before giving up on the endeavor entirely. It was going to waste during this conversation anyway. Much like the match that lit it. _Get matches,_ he reminded himself pointedly. Or at least a second backup lighter.

“I’d rather not talk about this,” he told her, voice weary.

Reines ignored him, a deceptively cheerful smile lighting her face. She tapped her finger to her cheek as though contemplating thoughtfully. “I’m sure your reasons will come to the surface soon enough,” she crooned, fluttering her eyelashes. “It probably has something to do with that old cloak scrap anyway. What was his name? The fellow from Macedonia?”

Waver clenched his teeth and stood up. "I'm going home," he grumbled. She knew very well who _that fellow_ was— though, if it were even slightly less personal, he would admire the moxie required to pretend not to know the name of Alexander the Great, just to be rude. Even cell phones these days had his name stored as an auto-correction entry in their databases.

He heard her tinkling laugh behind him as he walked away, not bothering to wait for her permission.

"Bye bye, brother," she called out mockingly. He could picture a little wave behind him, the way she used to when she was just a little girl.

She was so cute, back then. Slightly terrifying and unnervingly serious. But cute.

He missed “cute”.


	3. Spun Gold

Luvia reverently ran her hand along the gown hanging before her, covered in patterns and swirls of ancient fertility ritual embroidery. It had arrived earlier that day, and she’d spent the afternoon reading the folds and curves of it. She traced along the stitches lightly with her fingertips, up and down and in tiny coils and long loops. If she closed her eyes, she could envision the deep history of women who had worn this same pattern before her. She could see her mother, with a demure smile, and the photographs of her grandmother– so serious but eyes like fire. And many others. Many, many others.

The carefully tailored garment was traditional for the old families. The gowns were all simple in construction and silhouette, but the ritual lace covered at least sixty percent of each. It was a remnant of a time when the lines between sex and marriage, as well as magic and magecraft, were far more indistinct; a time when the primary purpose of marriage was to forge bonds between families in which to bring forth new life. Such magics had mostly been abandoned or altered over the millennia, but the lace had stayed. At least among those that cared.

Whether this was in the spirit of magic preservation, or an act of borrowing legitimacy from ancestors long gone, was mostly unclear and came up from time to time as a subject of debate. Some families went so far as to create gowns that were entirely covered, with a double layer underneath in hopes to invoke the magic more effectively. But sixty percent was sufficient for Luvia. It ran over the torso piece and comprised the entirety of the three-quarter length sleeves; the hem of the dress, too, was draped in the stitched runes. Her simple mantilla veil displayed the lace pinned to the gentle scalloped edges. She would, technically, be clothed in the pattern from head to toe.

It was a strong, thick lace, hand woven meticulously over months and months by a mage family located out of Cardiff who specialized in the craft. Even so, it seemed and felt so delicate. A stray edge-catch from one of the prongs of Reines’ ring could probably tear the whole thing from the top down, she mused. Well. Probably not. This wasn’t a modern lace constructed merely to be decorative. It was infused with a core that seemed as alive as she. Perhaps moreso.

In a few days, she would wear it at sunset in front of the sizable windows of St. Bartholomew’s Gatehouse in the City of London. They would sign their names to the registry in the next alcove over for history to record their union, and another line would be added to the ancestral maps.

A gruff but kind voice broke the silence from behind her.  
  
“A beautiful tradition, is it not?”

A smile crept to her lips. Her father had arrived in town last week from Finland and would stay until sometime after the wedding. He had spent the last few days helping her make preparations with the officials within the Association to ensure the proper authorities were present from the Church to make the whole thing in accordance with treaty standard.

“Very beautiful,” she answered, catching his eye in the full length mirror standing next to where the dress hung. She gave the dress one last pet before turning to face him in earnest.

Her arms reached out to him and he obligingly gave her a short hug. He smelled like pine today, she thought. Pine and scotch whiskey. What an odd combination.

“But it’s just a symbol these days,” she continued, pulling back from the embrace. She habitually rubbed the sleeves of his jacket to smooth out any wrinkles she may have caused. “It’s not really necessary to the ritual anymore.”

He gave her a quiet chuckle. “What is ritual, child, but symbols? It’s all just symbols. Symbols that come together to mean something, to create something,” he told her, voice emphatic as he spread his arm to gesture around the room.

 _To create something._ To create children, to create legacies, to create empires. Rituals that traced their roots to times before history, whose details had been lost to those not actively fighting to preserve them.

“We must do our best to ensure our symbols stay as alive as we. They are what set us apart from those who lack an appreciation for the art of what we do, and underlie the very essence of who we are as a family and as mages. We must never lose what makes us Edelfelt, my dear.”

“You’re right,” she replied, plucking a peacock feather out of a floral arrangement whose home was on a nearby side table. She rolled the feather in small twirls between her fingers, back and forth, back and forth. The spinning blues and greens were nearly hypnotic. “Of course, you’re right.”

Her father wandered to the towering stained glass windows in the room. They were installed at Luvia’s specific commission when she had bought the mansion several years ago. The opaque glass and fragmented mosaic of the pattern offered her privacy; the colors, beauty. Enormous works of interactive art as the change in sun position throughout the day shifted the angle and saturation of the tinted light on the furniture and walls. She couldn’t see his face, but she was sure that his eyes were roving the painted scenery.

“These are quite lovely,” he told her, back still turned. “But do you think, perhaps, you could have requested larger? Imagine the effect of a few more panels. Just to the sides, here,” he gestured to his left and then right, before moving his hand higher up to indicate the corners, “And some valuating shapes right up around here.”

She stared at his back, unsure how to reply. Larger? They were already quite large. Making them larger would only serve to boast of their expense, which, if she was honest, was entirely the point he was attempting to make. He always did like showing off the finer things in life.

“Is something troubling you, Luviagelita?”

Drat. She’d been hoping to keep that little detail to herself. She must have taken too long to acknowledge his criticisms. But then again, papa always did seem to know these things. Especially when she wished he didn’t.

“Troubling, Papa?” she feigned, voice coated in honey. She knew it wouldn’t work. He was her papa, after all. Still, it was as he’d always told her: half the value of an endeavor is located in the attempt.

He shifted his feet, angling one back toward her as his shoulder swung to allow his outstretched arm to gesture for her hand. She obliged, making the few paces it would take to reach him before grasping his palm with her own. He held it high as a knight would a lady and directed her gaze to the window with him.

“Tell me,” he prompted. His voice was always so deceptively soothing. It was how he always got his way no matter the obstacle; his requests even to those far his superior were always granted, his butlers always went above and beyond, his family played their fortunes by his directives—even after he’d surrendered formal leadership to his young daughter. Luvia aspired to be like him, with a voice of spun gold that once procured a sapphire from the Danish royal family’s personal collection for her birthday the year she turned twelve.

She sighed and held her hand out to touch the pink and white swirls of the glass pane in front of her.

“I feel as though I’ve become involved in a strange interpersonal power-play,” she told him. _Spun gold,_ she thought. Impossible to resist.

A low huff, followed by a deep chuckle– the kind that emanates from deep within the diaphragm. “My dear,” he responded, “That sounds like standard politics to me.”

Her brow furrowed momentarily before she hastily unscrunched it. _Wrinkles, Luvia_ , she reprimanded herself. _Musn’t give start to wrinkles._

“I don’t...think...” she began carefully, “... that this is standard politics, Papa. It’s something... odd, between Reines and Velvet.”

Her father let out a low _hmmm_. “Odd in which way?”

She straightened her shoulders indignantly, recalling how the professor had selected the word _debt_ to describe his particular situation. “I think I’m being manipulated as a chip to settle some kind of score.”

She could see her father’s shoulders jostle in a small shrug. He idly tapped at the wooden window frame. “That’s not unusual.”

Evidently, this concerned him far less than it had been concerning her.

“But amongst themselves?” she protested. “I had thought to be _aware_ of all the bargaining in this matter.”

“Luvia.” He addressed her patiently, calmly. As though she were once again five-years-old and he was instructing her on the most basic of jewel principles for conversion techniques. “What sense would it make for Lord El-Melloi the Second to agree to a union on behalf of a family to which he has no blood relation? He has no dog in this particular fight. It's true that what benefits the El-Melloi theoretically benefits him, but he has made no secret for the many years he has held this title that he wishes as little of their, shall we say, _charity_ as he can manage.”

She swallowed. She could feel moisture beginning to prick at her eyes, but she swallowed that down, too. “You knew,” she half-heartedly accused him.

“I didn’t know, child. I suspected. I did warn you, though. When we first discussed this, I did warn you that if we approached the El-Melloi, they were going to want something in it for them. I had rather thought you'd be aware when he agreed that this would apply to him, too.” He rested his hand gently on her shoulder, squeezing reassuringly. “It’s still a good alliance for us.”

“But _Waver Velvet_ ,” she complained. “He’s just the grandson of a kitchen witch.”

Lord El-Melloi II or not, his blood wasn't the blood of the El-Melloi clan. His beginnings couldn’t even be called humble. If anything, somewhere far down the line, his great-great-great grandchildren would be able to claim him as their humble beginnings. What right did he think he had, to be utilizing her person and her connections for his own outstanding balances?

“He did wonders for your Gandr,” her father reminded her, laying the gloved fingers of his free hand flat across her cheek to direct her eyes to meet his. “Your children will be strong, and well-taught. They will reach to the highest corners of their magical potential. They will make the Edelfelt family proud. And,” he nudged her to face him better, then tapped her nose with the pad of his outstretched pinky finger, “They will be beautiful.”

Luvia turned her eyes away from him. She didn’t want to think about _her children_ right now.

“In any case,” he ventured on, “I seem to remember a certain young man from Japan who had no discernible heritage at all that you were quite taken with.”

“That was different,” she replied hastily, turning fully to him once more and brushing his hand off her shoulder. “I never anticipated it going anywhere. And he wasn’t tied up in any of these things. He was just sweet, and...” she trailed off.

“And decidedly average,” her father finished. “You can’t fool me, my dear. I know your tastes run towards men who are uncomplicated and simple.”

“Lord El-Melloi the Second is neither of those things,” she sniffed. No, _Lord El-Melloi the Second_ was not at all uncomplicated or simple. _Lord El-Melloi the Second_ was apparently involved in making deals with the devil.

“So it’s not the breeding you object to then, but the man?” His mouth twisted in bemusement.

Luvia fell silent. She knew her papa liked the damn fool, for whatever reason. It was he who had argued so vigorously on behalf of Velvet when Reines replied to their inquiry; it was he who reasoned that the new blood would be good for their progeny. He’d strung the argument’s net as far and wide as he could, layering on an extra dose of how deliciously ironic it would be for the El-Melloi to be associated with them through shared stake in a young, low-blooded mage that they themselves proffered. Even if it was passive-aggressive on Archisorte’s part, he said, she was unwittingly offering a chance not to refute but to underscore the point that new talent, and not just old blood, should be fostered to bring magecraft to its fullest potential.

And she had agreed. _Spun gold._ She knew all the dangers, knew all his tricks, and still she was as susceptible as anyone else. It was different now, though. Now that she knew that Reines was toying with her little pet, and she, Luviagelita Edelfelt, served as the ball to be abused for the sake of the treat it contained. Now, it did not feel ironic— it felt demeaning. The reverie of her father’s influence had cracked under the weight of an excessively bruised ego.

“I suppose I could always kill him in his sleep and steal his researches,” she posited, opting not to answer.

“Best of luck blaming that one on Guilder,” her father replied.

“Pardon?”

He shook his head congenially. “I’ve been watching old movies of late,” he told her. “I had a whole collection imported recently, from all over the globe. Terrific study in culture, I’ve found.”

Imported? A whole collection? _Wasteful,_ she thought. There were so many more efficient alternatives in this decade that she was certain would cost a fraction of whatever it was he was doing.

Luvia opened her mouth as if to say something, but thought better of it and settled into a nearby cushioned seat instead. The peacock feather dangled over the arm of the chair as her hand loosed its grip, allowing its point to droop towards the floor. She sighed and touched the fingertips of her free hand to her forehead.

She felt the weight of her father’s hand settle once again on her shoulder from behind. “My dear… If you do not wish to play this game, you are still permitted to cancel the agreement. But,” he paused. “If it’s merely an objection to the more personal incentives for engaging us, allow me to redirect your focus a trifle.”

He lifted his hand from her shoulder, pacing the room to the leather chair across from her. His palms braced him against the worn surfaces of the arms as he folded his body to sit. A small grunt escaped his throat with the motion. Age was beginning to catch up to her papa, it appeared. It was so strange. She used to think he was the one man who could never grow old.

Having made himself comfortable, he clasped his hands together in his lap.

“I have known Reines a very long time. Longer than you, in fact. And better, I’d say, having worked with her in her early days as the child successor to the previous Lord El-Melloi.” He lifted a hand to gingerly stroke the corner of his moustache as his lips pursed in consideration. He reminded her of Velvet that day at the café, contemplating his words. Her papa was much better at articulation, however. Her papa was much better at everything.

“What I have learned in that time,” he finally continued, “is that Reines does nothing for pure personal amusement. Oh, of course she is probably getting a good chuckle at his expense,” he conceded, waving off the protest forming on her lips, “but she is not so short-sighted nor so cartoonish a villain that she would call in the entirety of an enormous debt on the gain of a front-row seat to watching someone suffer.”

“So he's not even really getting anything of worth out of this,” she murmured. That was good, at least. It made her feel better to think that he was being played as much as she.

Her father’s shoulders shook with laughter. “Oh, heavens no, child. He thinks he is, I'm sure, but the debts Lord El-Melloi the Second has to that family are bigger than any tit-for-tat style repayment. Even if it _were_ so simple, as it stands he has a tremendous amount of influence in the Clock Tower. Do you truly think she would be so foolish as to let him out from under her thumb at this stage? Maybe several years ago, but not now.”

His eyes brightened with subdued fire as he leaned forward slightly to address her. She knew that look. It was the look she’d seen on many occasions as a child when he would leave their home in Finland, telling her he was off on an adventure that would enrich both their coffers and their crest.

“It is likely that our Mister Velvet agreed because she made a deal regarding those debts, yes. But.” He held up a finger, as though in instruction. “ _Reines_ agreed because she wants something out of this that she isn’t disclosing to her esteemed brother.

And your job, my dear, is to find out what it is.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone interested in the ritual stuff I mentioned, please don't waste time trying to look it up. I conflated a lot of ideas in regards to fertility rituals, the origin of marriage as a pagan institution, and marriage as a means through which people partnered to raise children. There's a lot of good and cool information out there regarding the roots of marriage, but what I talk about in this chapter is by no means something plucked out of historical accuracy. 
> 
> Additionally, the gatehouse information is linked to and elaborated upon in the following fic: 
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/5062399
> 
> She and I work together closely on our worldbuilding so any information found in the above fic should transfer and hold true to my own story.


	4. A Prelude to a Wedding

Tick. Tock.  
  
Tick. Tock.  
  
The pendulum clock on the wall continued its steady metronome pace, disregarding its visitors.   
  
Tick. Tock.  
  
Five minutes. Five minutes and countless waves of mild panic had passed in absolute silence. The twosome could anticipate another five before there would be any intervention in their uncomfortable isolation. Blessed intervention, to save Waver from having to think through all the turns of his life and choices which had led him to this moment. Or perhaps, more immediately, the feeling of faint nausea spreading from his gut up into his chest.  
  
Reines had explained to him some time back that technically this time was supposed to be spent in quiet reflection of purpose. Of course, she’d followed that information by telling him that people usually spent it either talking themselves or each other into going through with the marriage. She seemed rather glib about the whole thing, lightly relating how she’d heard tales of people hurriedly opening the door to declare they had changed their mind, only to be shoved back in and told they had to wait the full ten minutes. By the time those minutes were up, it was exceedingly rare—and she took special care to emphasize _exceedingly—_ that anyone actually backed out.  
  
Essentially, then, ten minutes to come to grips with the fact you no longer had a choice. That seemed about the size of Waver’s life.  
  
Tick, tock, the clock did love to mock.  
  
It suddenly occurred to him—and shocked him how he’d never realized it before, or rather, that he’d never registered it on a scale ratio before—how tiny his companion was. She typically came off as larger than life, a personality too big for the constraints of laughable things like physical size. Something like a force of nature in her ability to instill both dread and wonder. Yet truthfully, as she stood before him, he estimated she could only be a little over five feet, give or take a couple inches. Had she really always been this petite?   
  
Iskander’s voice telling him he should change his wish in order to be taller echoed in his ears… or maybe it had been something making fun of him for an assumption that he had wanted the grail for that. If only his old friend could see this comical sight, mismatched bride and groom in equally mismatched proportions. He’d probably congratulate him on gaining a foot and ignore anything actually relevant about the situation. And then, probably, he’d ask if there would be wine. A rueful smile tugged at the left corner of Waver’s mouth.   
  
_No, old friend, there won’t be wine. It’s not that kind of affair.  
_  
It was too bad, actually. He could use some wine right about now, and he’d hazard a guess that she could, too. His eyes had met hers upon entering the room, nervously anticipating a glare of challenge; instead, he had met only a sense of personal resolve with a faint undercurrent of resignation.  
  
Wine would at least make this ten minutes go by faster. Maybe Iskander would’ve had a point about that one.  
  
Tick. Tock.  
  
Her dress seemed remarkably plain. It stood in stark contrast to her usual abundance of frills and ribbons, adorned with nothing save for an intriguing pattern of guipure lace. Something about it seemed familiar. Why did he know those symbols? Where had he seen—he suppressed a groan. He knew where he’d seen those symbols.   
  
Her hands clutched tightly to a bouquet of lilies. Not quite the bouquet he would have expected, with roses coming to mind as the more immediate choice of brides, but nonetheless appropriate. It certainly fit that horrid dress.   
  
If the Greek mythos were to be believed, the lily was a flower that sprang from a drop of the breast milk of Hera falling to the earth. Waver had unfortunately noted over the years that the old guard greatly enjoyed injecting sex and fertility symbolism into every spare crevice of their social structures. He’d concluded long ago that they were either all great perverts, or entirely too committed to their roles in the cycle of life. Of course, it didn’t hurt that that this preoccupation coincided neatly with their obsession for building upwards and forwards through the future generations.  
  
Then again, lilies also tended to be the flower of funerals, so maybe she was playing it from that angle. He’d have to agree with her on that front.  
  
Waver wished that he also could have had something to grasp onto, something thing to do with his hands— _anything_ to do with his hands but have them hang idly and heavily by his sides. Generally, he would shove them into the pockets of his coat at moments like these, but today there was no coat and no pockets to be had. The red fabric of Rider’s cloak crossed through his mind. Yes, clutching at the outlining fur of that cloak could be quite comforting. Alas, that was even farther from his reach than the previous options.  
  
No coat, no cloak, no cigars. Nothing but the blasted ticking of that unrelenting clock.  
  
The last time he had stood in this alcove, he had crept in as a trespasser. The last time he had signed the book he was about to sign, he’d signed it with a stolen identity to access things he had no right or business to be accessing. And now, because his younger self had been so unforgivably idiotic with misplaced compassion, he was about to sign it again—this time with his own name, his own identity, and his dubiously earned title.   
  
Tick. Tock.  
  
It appeared to him that he was not the only person in attendance that was familiar with the room. His bride’s eyes flitted from point to point, as if taking in the parameters and comparing them to some long-past memory of her own. His teeth met the soft inner flesh of his cheek. What was the old expression? Curiosity killed the cat.   
  
Quashing his instincts of self-preservation, Waver steeled his resolve. After all, if she attacked him and satisfaction failed to bring him back, he would be sparing himself whatever was supposed to come after today.  
  
“You’ve been here before, I assume?”  
  
Her eyes stopped roving and landed on his face. There was a brief instant of eye contact, which thankfully seemed to make them mutually uncomfortable. Her eyes quickly darted back to the plants at the sides of the register.  
  
“Once. For a cousin.”  
  
She didn’t offer any more detail. Almost immediately, he could feel the regret seeping in. The ensuing silence was perhaps heavier for having been broken, and it felt as though he’d placed a tremendous burden on his own shoulders to carry the conversation. Though it went against his better judgment, he couldn’t stand a single minute more of that insufferable _tick, tock_ business.  
  
“So your name will be in there twice, then.” He nodded to the book they’d be signing in a few minutes once the others had filtered in.   
  
Her head bobbed slightly and gently to the side in a gesture of bored concession. She appeared uninterested in his lousy attempts at conversing. He was about to heave a sigh of failure when the indifference turned to a suspicious narrowing of her bright eyes.   
  
“What would _you_ know of the contents of that book, my lord?” Her voice was calm and measured, but there was an underlying hiss he couldn’t seem to shake.   
  
“I, well I, eh…”  
  
_Caught._ He’d managed to keep his secret for over fifteen years, and now he was caught by a careless comment. For fuck’s sake.  
  
Thankfully, the remaining five minutes appeared to be up, and the door swung open to save him. Reines entered first and foremost, followed by an older gentleman he vaguely recognized to be the prior Edelfelt head of family, and of course, the archivist.   
  
“I trust everything is settled, now?” Reines rubbed her gloved hands together briskly, not bothering to check their faces nor wait for reply. “Let’s get to it, then.”  
  
The archivist had stationed himself next to the register, quickly scrawling something on the page before motioning to Reines. She walked sprightly to join him, lifting the ivory pen and extending it to Waver.   
  
“Now, I’m supposed to sign this first, but then it’s you next, brother.” Her tone was gratingly chipper. He expected the Edelfelts to raise some sort of objection to this order, but none came. The bride continued to clutch her bouquet with eyes narrowed at him. Her father stood beside her at some sort of modified parade rest, hands folded neatly to the front of his hips rather than his back, and feet parted about ten inches or so.   
  
It took only a brief moment for Reines to twirl her signature onto the page. The lock to the records room slid open, just as he knew it would. Waver stepped forward to take his turn as instructed, but hesitated when he felt the smooth surface of the pen slip into his hand. The signature. The room. Did he really want to go back in there? Part of him said yes. The other part wanted to run away, to avoid confronting a past he thought he’d dealt with but perhaps still lingered too heavily on his shoulders.  
  
But running away… he glanced guiltily at his wrist. Running away stopped being an option the day he took it upon himself to become a true, honest mage.  
  
He took a long breath to steady himself, drawing air deep into his lungs and exhaling slowly. Pen found paper and letters joined to become a name. His own name. His hand hesitated, fingers shaking. And then— he found himself adding a comma.  
  
_Waver Velvet, Lord of the Noble House of El-Melloi.  
_  
He gave a small nod to the page in satisfaction. The title was perhaps unnecessary, but it made him feel a little better to give explanation to some long-distant reader as to what claim he had in this place. Having carried out this small yet remarkably difficult task, he passed the pen to the nearby archivist and resumed his place a bit to the side of the room.  
  
The archivist motioned to the bride to step forward. Of course she would be next. As family head, she acted both as wedded party and as representative of her house. Her father didn’t truly even need to be there. Waver guessed his presence was more for moral support than technical necessity.   
  
He watched as her elegant hand stretched forth to fulfill its task, but the hand stopped short and her brow furrowed when her eyes fell on the page. Her lips pursed in consternation as she appeared to be taking a moment to read the signatures just above the place where her own would rest. Finally, her eyes rolled and with a little flourish of the wrist, she jotted down her attendance.   
  
It took less than a minute to complete the task, with her father stepping forward to scribble something down of his own. Waver had already stopped paying attention to the others, eyes focused instead on the door they’d soon pass through. Names flashed through his mind. Cleopatra. Cadmeia.  
  
Iskander.  
  
“Brother?”   
  
Yes. Brother. Cleopatra’s brother.   
  
_“Brother.”  
_  
Reines’ impatient voice cut through his thoughts. She stood at the open doorway, apparently waiting for him to follow where the others had already passed through. If she were less dignified a lady, her foot would be tapping and her arms crossed. But she was not less dignified a lady, and her posture belied the eagerness with which he could tell she wished to enter that room. He shook his head slightly to clear it, and stepped forward.  
  
There were lights this time. The assorted bookshelves seemed even more impressive in their full glory, and Waver couldn’t help but lose himself in a moment of awe. He wandered around, touching this tome and that, pulling a scroll here and there just to get a feel for the ancient materials. The others seemed to neither notice nor care that he wasn’t participating in the proceedings of fact-checking family bloodlines and histories. The only people who mattered in this room were the ones assuming family leadership roles, for which he thankfully had no responsibility.   
  
A warm glow started in his heart when he saw the pinpricks of light on the table. The map. The beautiful, incredible map, possibly the greatest achievement of this self-important society. His eyes darted first to the amber lights of Macedonia. He almost reached out to touch it, but pulled his hand back at the last moment out of respect. Instead, he looked northward to Britain, wondering which prick of light was his own, and whether it would shift position, ever so slightly, by the end of this day.   
  
“That is _quite_ enough, don’t you think?”   
  
A clamor in his background interrupted his musings. It appeared that Reines had agitated his bride. Her Finnish cheeks were flushed dark pink with irritation and she was hastily rolling up an old scroll, gesturing for the archivist to follow suit with several others that had apparently been pulled down for inspection.   
  
“Surely one more manuscript won’t hurt?” A mischievous smile touched at Reines’ lips.  
  
“Not a single one more,” came the firm voice in reply.  
  
His sister let out a dramatic sigh, touching gloved fingertips to her forehead as though the denial had been some sort of terrible imposition. “Very well then. Come, brother, I believe we’re done here.”  
  
He watched as she stepped out the door, leaving the archivist and the Edelfelts behind to clean up the mess of materials she’d rifled through. He frowned first at her disappearing royal blue figure, then again at the trio sorting and stacking, rolling and reorganizing. Before long, he found himself stooping down to help, but a sharp look from the woman in lace told him it would be best if he refrained from touching her family’s things.  
  
His hands raised in submission, Waver stepped back to allow them space to finish their task. There wasn’t much extra space, of course, but there was enough to offer him a vantage point of their progress. It seemed strange to find himself lingering just a little longer in this tight room he’d been so afraid to face just a short while before.  
  
Not a word was spoken to him, nor acknowledgment of his presence given, until they were passing through the doorway, when a perturbed voice beside him sniffed her dissatisfaction.  
  
“It is rather poor etiquette, Lord El-Melloi the Second, to abuse the records access. Verification is one thing, but _snooping_ is quite another.”  
  
Though he still wasn’t entirely certain what they’d been squabbling over, Waver shrugged his agreement. “Reines’ penchant for rudeness is a well-documented phenomenon.”  
  
Her pink lips parted momentarily before drawing into a tight line. She brushed ahead of him, blonde curls bouncing softly under her veil with the motion of quickened steps. It appeared that they were to make this next walk together, separately.


End file.
